Hurt
by ilovecastiel18
Summary: In "The Lying Detective" Sherlock told Faith Smith (well, Eurus really) "You're suicidal, you're allowed chips. Trust me, it's the only perk." What if Sherlock actually attempted suicide, and was caught by John and Mycroft in the act? I tried to keep them in character as best I could. Rated M for mentions of self-harm, drugs, and suicide/suicidal thoughts. Mild language warning.


**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, location, etc. are the property of BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn't mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch ;)

 **Summary:** In "The Lying Detective" Sherlock told Faith Smith (well, Eurus really) "You're suicidal, you're allowed chips. Trust me, it's the only perk." What if Sherlock actually attempted suicide, and was caught by John and Mycroft in the act? I tried to keep them in character as best I could. Rated M for mentions of self-harm, drugs, and suicide/suicidal thoughts. Mild language warning.

 **A/N:** I was just re-watching TLD last night on Netflix and I noticed that Sherlock implied that he was suicidal to Eurus when she was disguised as Faith Smith. I wondered what would happen if Sherlock attempted suicide rather than picking a fight with Culverton Smith. Maybe he didn't think he was worth John's time, so he decided to just remove himself permanently from his life. Well, I decided I wanted a fic like this, so here it is. Review if you like it!

…..

Hurt

…..

"Chips." Sherlock stated, pulling his coat from the hook.

"Sorry, what?"

"You're suicidal, you're allowed chips. Trust me, it's the only perk." Sherlock gave a pointed look to the woman in his doorway before thinking for a moment. He pulled his coat on and walked out the door to go for a walk with the woman, but he was very distracted by a nagging thought in the back of his mind.

 _What if I was gone?_

…..

It had been a week since his walk around London with that woman. Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, twiddling his handgun around his finger.

Bill Wiggins, his dealer, had left a while ago, screaming that he'd had too much, and he was losing it. Mrs. Hudson had tried to help, but Sherlock didn't want any of it. The only thought running through his mind was suicide.

He remembered vividly when he jumped off Bart's hospital to save John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He remembered it was a rush, but he felt bad for leaving his friends, John especially, hurting.

But the fact of the matter was, none of them would miss him now. John hated him for not saving Mary, Mrs. Hudson was sick of dealing with his drugged outbursts and bullets tearing through the wall, and Lestrade was no longer asking him for help, since he was constantly high as a kite. Mycroft, ever the unfeeling government man, would be happy that he no longer had to deal with his ridiculous junkie brother, though he may miss his occasional help, and Molly was sick of Sherlock constantly putting himself in danger by shooting up with cocaine constantly, though she may miss him a bit. The only people that would really miss him were his parents. The would be all right after a while, though.

Sherlock stopped spinning the gun around his finger and just looked at it. It was starting to look _really_ appealing.

What did he have to lose?

…..

His phone was ringing. He didn't turn to get it. He had a feeling he knew _exactly_ who was calling him.

After a moment, however, John turned and grabbed his phone, answering the call.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" he sighed.

Mycroft paused. "It's Sherlock, Dr. Watson. Mrs. Hudson called me and said she was getting really worried about him. She said he's been becoming increasingly withdrawn and depressed. I want you to come with me to Baker St. to talk to him." Mycroft stated.

"No thanks. I'm sure Sherlock will be fine. He doesn't feel anyway." John replied. He went to hang up the phone when he was interrupted.

"We both know that's not true, Dr. Watson. We both know Sherlock feels, maybe more than others, he just hides it well. The fact that he's actually starting to show his emotions concerns me." He paused. "You're his best friend, Dr. Watson. I need your help."

"Not anymore, I'm not." John snapped.

"Yes, you are, John. Don't kid yourself. He is depressed because he blames himself for the death of your wife. As tragic as the whole thing is, you and I both know it isn't his fault that she died. Blaming him is doing no good to anybody."

"How dare you…" John started angrily.

"I'm sorry your wife died, John. I really am. But that doesn't change the fact that it was her decision to jump in front of the bullet and save Sherlock. Nobody is to blame for this. You're punishing both yourself and Sherlock by blaming him. Now stop this nonsense and help your friend." Mycroft snapped.

John pulled the phone from his ear and stared at the floor. Mycroft was right. He hated when Mycroft was right.

Steeling himself, John raised the phone back to his ear and spoke. "Fine, you win, Mycroft. Where am I to meet you?"

"I'm outside. Bring your daughter, Mrs. Hudson can watch her while we talk to Sherlock." Mycroft answered.

John groaned. Of course Mycroft was outside, why wouldn't he be? He loved rubbing the fact that he was right in other people's faces.

"I'll be out in a minute." John snapped, before hanging up on Mycroft.

He went into Rosie's nursery and grabbed her diaper bag, shoving a few toys inside as he did so. He then grabbed Rosie and made his way out of the house.

He walked up to the window of the car outside tapped on it. Mycroft slowly rolled down the window.

"I'm going to have to drive my own car, since Rosie needs to be in her car seat to be safe." He stated matter-of-factly.

"We have one here." Mycroft motioned to the backseat, where there was, sure enough, a car seat the perfect size for Rosie.

Sighing, John opened the door and strapped Rosie into the seat, then made his way around the car and sat beside her.

Mycroft turned to the driver and nodded, before turning in his seat to face John (he was in the front passenger seat.)

"I'm worried about him." Mycroft stated.

"You made that pretty clear on the phone." John replied.

"He needs you."

This caught John off guard. He never thought that Mycroft would think such a thing. Sentiment seemed to be foreign to the older Holmes brother most of the time, but here he was, making a deduction about Sherlock and John's relationship.

"Why do you say that?" John masked his thoughts while he said this, but Mycroft saw right through him.

"I know you think relationships and sentiment and love and the likes are foreign to me, but they are not. I know my brother loves you, and I know he was crushed when you blamed him for Mary's death. And you love him as well. Don't act like that, John," John had gone to protest, "You know it's true. You and Sherlock are best friends, and the separation and the blame put on him by you has caused him to spiral downward. I love Sherlock, no matter how much I try to cover that up, and I don't like seeing him like this. You're the only one that can fix it, Dr. Watson."

"And why would you say that?" John asked.

"Because, while I know my brother loves me as well, you are the person he is closest to, and I fear you are the only one that will be able to pull him out of this path of self-destruction he has put himself on." Mycroft stated. He turned in his seat, finished with the conversation, but it didn't matter, because they were already coming up on 221B.

When the car pulled up to the door, John quickly unhooked Rosie and grabbed the diaper bag and his daughter, rushing into the flat. He used his key to get in, then knocked on the door of Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"John!" she exclaimed when she opened the door. John hushed her.

"Can you watch Rosie while I go speak to Sherlock with Mycroft?" he asked politely.

"Of course, John. I'm glad you're finally talking to him again. God knows he needs you." Mrs. Hudson pulled the strap of the bag over her shoulder and reached out for Rosie.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." John handed Rosie over to his former landlady-not-housekeeper.

"It's no problem, dear." Mrs. Hudson turned and walked into her flat, shutting the door behind her. Just then, Mycroft walked into the flat.

"Shall we?" he asked grimly.

John nodded and started to make his way up the stairs to his former flat, Mycroft close behind.

When he walked into the flat, he saw a sight that he would never be able to forget.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, sleeves of his dressing robe rolled up to reveal tons of puncture marks. But that's not what shocked John.

Sherlock was sitting there with his handgun pressed to his temple.

Mycroft still had not entered the flat when John screamed "Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned just in time to see his best friend, or rather, former best friend, standing in the doorway in shock before Mycroft pushed through to get a look.

Dread filled every inch of Mycroft's face.

"What the bloody hell are you doing, Sherlock?!" John yelled, stalking forward to he was standing near Sherlock's desk.

"I thought that was rather obvious, John." Sherlock snapped.

"Stop this at once, Sherlock." Mycroft snapped from the doorway.

"No." Sherlock's finger tightened on the trigger.

"Sherlock, enough of this. Why in God's name would you want to end your life?" John asked.

"Well let's see, John. I friend of mine just got killed protecting me, my best friend blames me for it and despises my fucking existence, my other friends are sick of me and my drug use, and my brother can't stand having me around." Sherlock snapped. "You tell me why I want to end my life."

"I don't despise you, Sherlock. And it was wrong of me to blame you for Mary's death. It wasn't your fault." John replied, still scared that Sherlock was going to pull the trigger.

"And you're wrong about me, brother mine. I act like I can't stand you, but you're honestly the most important person in my life." Mycroft piped up.

"Lies. It is my fault Mary is dead, and you hate me, Mycroft."

"No, it's not."

"No, I don't."

John and Mycroft spoke at the same time.

"I shouldn't burden you with my existence. I always ruin everything. You deserve better." Sherlock replied. He tightened his finger on the trigger once again.

"Sherlock, you're my best friend. I need you." John was getting a bit desperate, the gun was still on Sherlock's temple.

"You don't ruin everything, brother. We want you here with us." Mycroft was showing more emotion now than John had ever seen him show. His face was pure panic.

"I'm obviously not coping well with everything that's happened. Why would you still want me around." Sherlock's voice cracked.

John had no choice. He decided he would divulge his biggest secret to Sherlock, with Mycroft in the room.

He stepped forward so he was directly in front of Sherlock before yanking up the sleeves of his jumper. There were at least fifty cuts on each arm, stretching from his wrist to just below the crook of his elbow. None of them had healed into a scar, meaning he had just started after Mary died.

"Does it look like _I've_ been coping well?" John asked. He meant to sound angry, but he just sounded sad. He heard a gasp from behind him and realized Mycroft had followed him over.

"Dr. Watson…" Mycroft whispered.

John gave Mycroft a look that clearly said _not right now, you idiot, I'm trying to save your brother's life!_

Mycroft backed up and sat in John's chair, one hand rubbing his face, the other clasping his umbrella.

"John…" Sherlock's gun hand lowered away from his temple slightly.

"I should have realized I needed you just as much as you needed me, Sherlock." John said. He slowly reached his hand toward the gun, sleeves still rolled up.

Sherlock loosened his grip on the gun enough for John to pull it out of his hand and move it onto the desk.

"I'm sorry I caused you this much pain, Sherlock." John felt a tear escape from his eye and he backed away from Sherlock and made to leave.

"Wait, John!" Sherlock leapt from his chair and followed John, catching him just at the door.

"Don't blame yourself, and, please, don't leave." Sherlock begged.

"Sherlock..." John went to argue. He was stopped when Sherlock wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pulled him to his chest, Mycroft be damned.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, and they stood there for a long moment. Finally, Sherlock spoke.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. I wish I could have stopped…that. I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered into John's ear.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to tell you how much you mean to me. I wish I could have stopped you from considering…you know. Along with getting dangerously high every hour." John whispered back.

"I guess we're even, then." Sherlock replied. He drew back and walked over to Mycroft, who was still sitting in John's chair, looking horrified.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft seemed to be in a world of his own.

" _Mycroft?!_ "

Finally, Mycroft looked up into Sherlock's face.

"I'm sorry you saw that. I know you love and care about me. I'm sorry." Sherlock said.

Mycroft stood. "And I'm sorry I let you down to the point you were considering taking your own life."

Sherlock held out his hand to shake Mycroft's, a small smile on his face. "Thank you for convincing John to come here with you. I know it was you. I can never thank you enough, Mycroft."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock's hand for a moment before bypassing it and awkwardly hugging him.

Sherlock stiffened, unused to his brother showing this level of sentiment, but he hugged him back after a moment.

Mycroft pulled back after a couple of minutes, making his way toward the door.

"I love the both of you. Thank you for saving me." Sherlock called across the room at John and Mycroft.

"We love you too, Sherlock. We won't let you down anymore." John said.

Mycroft smiled sadly and left the flat, but John stayed. He was determined not to leave his friend. Not when he needed him.


End file.
